Tomato Syrup
by Devin Trinidad
Summary: Which is worse Romano or Canada? No, the real question was who respected the awesomeness which was THE tomato.


Clad in numerous articles of clothing, the Spanish man still felt the biting sting of General Winter's handiwork. Hurriedly, he marched across the barren landscape of snow covered trees and rare greenery. As he did so, with a small smile on his face-he was a happy person-he muttered happy thoughts under his breath. Where was the handy dandy map the Frenchmen gave him? An expression akin to melancholy flittered on the soft features of the Spanish man. Now that he thought about it, only one person could infiltrate his documents to survival in the harsh environment.

"Well, if Spanish won't get into the chico's head, maybe French will." Chuckling to himself at the thought of his charge fiddling around with a French to Italian dictionary, he trudged forward into the fading light. Dimly, he wondered why he had offered to look after his best friend's colony when he was technically under his jurisdiction.

He sighed heavily at his companion's past misdeeds. Persuasion and blackmail, one of the nation's greatest weapons. The term was not lost on the Spaniard, but did he have to use his feelings for Belgium as leeway?

Breathing heavily, he surveyed his surroundings, for once coming out of his oblivious bubble of unawareness. Thinking the worst, which was highly unusual for the optimistic man, he thought he was lost and was about to die alone. Which was not exactly out of character for him. Concerned for his well being, he dug into his knapsack and pulled out a ripe tomato from his plethora of goodies. As he munched on his life-giving product that he oh so loved so much, he decided to set up camp.

As he proceeded to gather firewood and whatnot, he felt a small hand tug at the leg of his trousers in an effort to divert his attention. Thinking that perhaps that Romano followed him all the way to the harsh landscape, Spain glanced down in happiness. However, his good spirits were to be felled by the fact that no one was there to greet him with cussing and whiny complaints. Startled by the lack of presence of his fellow nation, he unceremoniously dropped the branches he held in one arm, his axe in another. Unfortunately, as he did so, a stubbed toe occurred in the process. Thus, a whole lot of cussing and praying to God followed afterwards.

"Papa says that you don't get girls by cursing." It was a soft voice that concluded the ideal that a little someone caught his attentiveness. Another thing that the happy go lucky nation noticed was that the little someone spoke in the natal language of the nations. Which meant…

Glancing all around himself, he tried to find the cutie that disturbed him.

"Are you France's little colony," he crooned. Evidently, the little colony of his amigo's must have been a little shy. Well, years of parental practice with his own charge taught him how to lure the little one out of the open.

Once again, he opened the flap of his knapsack and pulled out two ripe tomatoes, the red skin gleaming in the pristine alabaster of the snowy countryside. Holding it out in his hand, he knelt on the ground and waited for a physical or verbal response to his affections. Smiling slightly, he closed his eyes in effort to tell his meek companion that he would not hurt the younger personification.

"Merci, Monsieur!" One of the round fruits escaped the palm of the European, resulting in the soft sounds of squelching and the opening of Spain's chocolate brown eyes.

There were few things in life that could ever phase the Mediterranean nation, unripe tomatoes and Netherlands. Nope, it wasn't that the boy was munching on an unripe tomato, or the fact that he looked uncannily European in his standards. No, it was that he stepped into the territory of a-

"Fantasma! Ghost!" Sputtering back, he barely missed squishing his pack and landing on his butt in the mound of snow.

Brandishing his axe, he swung at the floating tomato, no real purpose, but to rid himself of the apparition.

Only to be stopped by a scowling white bear that somehow crept on him while he was reaching for his weapon. Great, not only did he have to deal with a dead person, but also a terrifying bear thirsted for his blood. Where was his trusty bull when he needed him?

"Non! Why can nobody see me!?" With a wail, the boy slowly revealed himself as the pearly water pooled down his cheeks, staining his shirt.

As his eyes took in the cute sight before him, he realized that he was clearly of European blood, lacked the dark skin of the resident Indians, and was probably spoiled by the French trappers there. Clearly, this young man was the little colony that France proudly spoke of when he came back home. Taking in the dark brown coat and tan trousers, he probably lacked the Frenchmen's taste in clothing. However, his hair was long and well kempt, a sight that made the Spaniard weep in joy at the sight of such adorableness!

"Hello little one, my name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. The great and powerful personification of Espana!" The last part was intoned with quite the suave flourish.

However, the little blonde boy looked unperturbed by the fact that he was standing in the presence of the great and powerful Spain. Instead, his face held the look of one ready to bolt if he so much started singing his national anthem. Sighing to himself, Antonio held a tomato thoughtfully in his hands and carefully bit into the soft, but firm skin. Contemplating his dilemma of trying to get the muchacho to talk to him, he though of Romano and his little brother. Then, he had an idea.

"Tio Spain will give you a tomato if you tell me your name," he exclaimed as he studied the lad's visage. When he noticed that he was receiving no response, he tried another tactic that NEVER failed. "You like churros, no?"

Clapping his gloved hands excitedly, the little nation rambled off information as if there was a fire.

"Bonjour! My name is Matthew Williams! I represent New France, but when I get older, I'll be Canada for sure! I look three years old, but I'm old like you-"

"That's rude."

"My bear is called Kuruk!" A melancholic expression took root on the youngster's face as he recalled past events. "But, Papa said that it was uncivilized and that I should name him something else…" he looked to the tanned man for comfort. "That's not right! And I don't like the name, Kumajirou…" Tears of exasperation began to fall, shattering the elder's heart.

"I'll talk to your Papa and sort things out, alright?" Without waiting for another answer, he snatched another tomato from his carrier as a reward for the boy's obedience. "Enjoy Mateo!"

Not wanting to be rude, the meek blonde grasped the fruit by its stem and though about eating it. Sure, it tasted good, but it needed more flavor…

"M-mateo! How dare you drown the majesty of the mighty tomato!"

For once in his life, Matthew tried to answer as sassily as he could.

"EVERYTHING tastes good with syrup."

Dios mo! He's worse than Romano!


End file.
